The Mysterious Curse of James Dean's Death Car
by Kathmak
Summary: While investigating some mysterious deaths and the possible curse of a long dead movie star, Doggett and Reyes are forced to face up to their true feelings for one another. DRR.
1. Chapter 1: They're Nuts About Each Other

Title: "The Mysterious Curse of James Dean's Death Car"

Author: Kathmak

Summary: Doggett and Reyes investigate a possible curse in Indiana...and they end up investigating each other as well (wink, wink).

Rating: R, possibly a bit higher (for a few bad words and some sexual situations)

Disclaimer: John and Monica don't belong to me, but they do belong to each other!

Category: DRR; romance; case file

Notes: See A/N at the end. I do wish to thank Tracy for her suggestions and beta skills. And thanks to Joanne for her wonderfully Drippy encouragement!

* * *

**A.D. Skinner's Office**

**Wednesday, 1:15 p.m.**

A part of him wished they would just do it and get it over with already. He knew that sort of thing was frowned upon by the bureau, but the atmosphere was thick with sexual tension, and it was starting to annoy him. Even he, Walter Skinner, noticed it, and he wasn't exactly the touchy-feely Dr. Phil type. Hell, a blind man could see that they were crazy about each other.

The male agent who sat in front of him insisted on looking everywhere but at _her_, and his female partner, who was sitting unusually close to him, looked about as nervous in his presence as an adulterer in church. As far as he knew, this "unresolved situation" didn't seem to be affecting their professional partnership. Still, he had seen Mulder and Scully go through the same thing a few years ago, and it took years for them to get their act together. He didn't want to see these two go down that same path. He was not especially close to either of them, but they were both good people, and they deserved better.

"Sir?" Monica Reyes looked at her boss expectantly. "You were saying?"

"Uh, yes." A.D. Skinner cleared his throat. "A couple of mysterious deaths occurred in Fairmount, Indiana. Here is a report of what we know so far." Skinner stood and distributed a copy of the report to each of them.

John Doggett flipped through the paperwork quickly. "I know I've never been there, but it sounds familiar to me. Not sure why, though."

Skinner returned to his chair and sat down. "Well, Agent Doggett, if you're good at Trivial Pursuit, it might sound familiar because that's where James Dean grew up. In fact, there may be a James Dean connection to this case."

"James Dean?" Monica looked up from the report. "We are talking about the actor, right? Not the guy who makes sausage?"

Skinner looked at Reyes as if she had sprouted a second head. He glanced over at Doggett, expecting him to be squinting at her with that steely, frustrated glare of his. But Doggett was looking at her adoringly, his head tilted slightly to the side as if she had just said the sweetest thing he had ever heard. And was that a smile creeping across his face?

_Good Lord_, _Doggett's got it bad for her, all right._

"Yes, Agent Reyes, this is the actor we're talking about," Skinner pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "_Jimmy_ Dean makes the sausage."

"Excuse me, sir, but hasn't James Dean been dead for decades? Doggett asked. "What possible connection could he have to this case?"

"I'm getting to that, Agent Doggett. Two nights ago, four local teenagers were out joyriding. Apparently they decided that it would be a good idea to raise some hell at the town cemetery."

"Oh, to be young and stupid again," Doggett mused with a smirk.

"It's the cemetery where James Dean is buried," Skinner continued. "According to one of the teens, they snuck in some beer and were hanging around Dean's headstone for about twenty minutes. Then they got scared and took off."

"Any idea what spooked them?" Reyes asked, gently tugging at her collar as she stole a glance at her partner. Almost as if he could feel her eyes on him, Doggett turned quickly to face her. Precisely at that moment, Reyes decided to stick her nose back into the paperwork that rested on her lap. Skinner watched this little scenario unfold with great amusement as he continued his summation of the facts.

"They said they heard a loud noise and then a scream. So they ran to their car and were about to get in when, according to them, they saw a shadowy figure standing about ten yards in front of them. This figure warned them not to get into the car."

Doggett rolled his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. "Lemme guess. The ghost of James Dean, right?"

"They couldn't swear to it. All they can remember is seeing a fuzzy figure and a flash of red. Two of the kids were scared enough that they refused to get into the car. They took off on foot and ran all the way into town."

"What about the other two? What happened to them?" Reyes asked.

Skinner thought to himself that Agent Reyes would already know the answer to that question, had she been reading the report as intently as she had pretended to, instead of trying not to get caught ogling her partner.

"They were killed when the car inexplicably ran into a tree and burst into flames. There were no adverse weather conditions, nor anything else that could have explained it." Skinner saw that Doggett still didn't look convinced. "Look," he continued, "one of the kids who was killed was the nephew of A.D. Bradley up in Violent Crimes. He doesn't think the local authorities are approaching this case the right way. He would like some FBI involvement. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir. We'll take care of it. C'mon, John." Reyes stood up, gently tugging on John's sleeve as she did so. With a resigned sigh, Doggett got up and followed his partner out of Skinner's office.


	2. Chapter 2: Cursed?

Thanks for the kind reviews. Here's chapter two!

* * *

**Fairmount Motor Lodge**

**Fairmount, Indiana**

**Wednesday, 10:33 p.m.**

"So what do you think, Mon? Are we playin' Ghostbusters again, or what?" Doggett asked sarcastically in his trademark New York clip. He got up from his chair and reached for another slice of carry-out pizza. Monica was sitting cross-legged smack in the middle of Doggett's bed, her fingers flying across the keys of her laptop computer.

Doggett envied those damn computer keys. He wondered what else Monica could do with those long, beautiful fingers of hers. He couldn't help but watch her in awe as she concentrated on the computer screen, her reading glasses perched precariously on the end of her nose. Monica looked perfectly at home sitting there on his bed in her tank top and flannel pajama bottoms, her hair bound up in a loose ponytail.

Monica was a beautiful woman; there was no getting around that. Doggett saw the way men looked at her. Any one of them would give their right arm to spend time in her magnetic presence. He remembered one occasion not long after Monica joined him on the X-Files: he was in the men's room at work, and he overheard the conversation of two other male agents. They were talking about Monica, or the "new blood" as they referred to her, like she was a piece of meat. Doggett nearly went through the roof, slamming one of them up against the sink when he heard the asshole speculating on how good she was in the sack. Doggett warned the guy that if he ever spoke about Agent Reyes in that manner again, he would live to regret it. The guy was so freaked out that he hadn't been able to look Doggett in the eye since.

Doggett didn't think of her like that. Sure, he had frequent sexual thoughts about her–he was a healthy guy, after all. His mind sometimes drifted off as he daydreamed about what she would feel like lying underneath him. He fantasized about feeling her warm body pressed up against him as they lay together in post-coital bliss. Did she taste as good as she looked?

But there was so much more to his feelings for Monica, so much more than he could ever hope to quantify. For a precious few seconds, Doggett closed his eyes and pretended that she was in his bed back in Falls Church, sharing the Sunday edition of the Washington Times with him. He wanted to wake up next to this woman every morning for the rest of his life. He wanted her good days and her bad days, her highs and her lows. He simply wanted _her_. All of her.

These kinds of thoughts had been occurring to him more and more frequently these days, Doggett thought wistfully. He grudgingly admitted to himself that he was in love with Monica, but he was at a loss over what to do about it.

_Sure as hell can't tell her how I feel. That'd ruin everything. Wouldn't it? _

Doggett used to think that she returned his feelings, but now he wasn't so sure. Sure, she was still the same Monica when they worked their cases together, but lately she seemed to jump every time he touched her. Even something as innocuous as his hand on the small of her back seemed to make her uncomfortable these days.

She used to touch him, too, and he missed that. Monica would touch him gingerly on the arm when she was trying to make a point. Sometimes she would reach over and straighten his tie just as they were about go into Skinner's office for a meeting. He longed for those moments of contact, however brief.

Thankfully, Monica interrupted John's thoughts. "John, this is pretty interesting stuff. You should take a look at this." She motioned for John to sit next to her.

Doggett blinked and considered her request. The thought of being that close to her was intoxicating. Earlier that day in the car, he had reached over to open the glove compartment, and his hand brushed up against her knee. It had made him feel almost giddy. He wanted nothing more than to be near her, to touch her, to . . . However, he didn't know if he'd be able to focus if he was sitting next to her at that particular moment. These thoughts he had been having about his partner were not exactly conducive to a professional working relationship.

He stuffed a mouthful of pizza into his face and put his feet up on the bed. "I don't feel like getting up, Monica. Why don't you just read it to me?"

Doggett cursed himself. _Nice diversionary tactic, dumbass_.

For a minute he thought he saw a hint of disappointment in her eyes. _Nah, had to be my imagination._

"Okay, suit yourself, lazy butt," Monica huffed. "This is a James Dean website. Did you know that there is an urban legend floating around out there about his car being cursed?"

"Okay, I'll bite." Doggett sighed. "What kind of curse?"

"Says here that Dean loved fast cars and bought a Porsche Spyder in 1955. A couple of his friends warned him not to buy the car because they got negative vibes from it. It was like they knew that car was bad news."

Doggett raised a skeptical eyebrow. "C'mon, Monica. Please don't tell me the phrase 'negative vibes' is actually used in that article. I'll have to question how legit your information is."

Monica smiled that Mona Lisa smile of hers, the one that always twisted Doggett's heart into a pretzel. "Okay, so I embellished a little," she continued. "Anyway, Dean brushed it off and told one friend that he was destined to die by way of a speeding car. In September of 1955 he was on his way to a race in Salinas, California when the Porsche collided with another car. He died instantly.

"Afterwards, a friend of his, George Barris, bought the remnants of the Porsche so he could use it for its rare parts. As it was being unloaded from the truck, the car slipped and broke both of the mechanic's legs."

"An unfortunate accident," Doggett suggested.

Monica's eyes never left the computer screen. "Just hang on a minute, John. There's more. The Porsche's engine and drive train were sold to two men who put them into their race cars. In October of 1956, they raced the cars using these parts for the first time. One was killed and the other was seriously injured in separate accidents.

"Barris sold the tires to two different people, both of whom later reported that their tires had blown out simultaneously, nearly causing serious accidents."

"Coincidences, to be sure . . . " he offered helpfully.

Monica ignored him and continued. "A few fans looking for some kind of macabre souvenir suffered serious injuries when they tried to steal parts from the car. In 1959, the California Highway Patrol decided to use the remains of the Porsche as part of a safety exhibit. During one of the exhibits, the garage used to store Dean's car went up in flames. Mysteriously, all of the vehicles inside were destroyed except the Porsche. And later, while the car was being transported to another exhibit near Salinas, the truck that was hauling it was involved in a serious accident. The driver was thrown from the cab and the Porsche rolled on top of him, crushing him to death."

"No shit," Doggett said, now slightly more intrigued.

"I shit you not, John. Not long after that, the car was again being transported when it broke into two pieces and slid from the flatbed of the truck, ultimately causing another fatal accident.

"Finally, in 1960, Barris had enough and decided to have the car shipped back to California so he could get it out of circulation. So the car was loaded into a boxcar in Florida and the door was carefully sealed shut. But, when the train got to L.A., Porsche was nowhere to be found."

"Well that's an easy one, " Doggett snorted. "The car was stolen by some crazy fan while it was en route to California."

Monica rubbed her hands together conspiratorially. "Ah, but the seal on the boxcar door was still intact, John. Creepy, huh?"

"I'll say. I feel like I'm stuck in the Twilight Zone." Doggett stood up and stretched. "Okay, Mon, I admit it: that stuff is damn weird, but come on. Do you honestly think it has anything to do with a so-called 'curse'?"

"I don't know, John," Monica replied thoughtfully. "But it doesn't hurt to keep an open mind." She paused a moment before asking, "So what do you think?"

Doggett shrugged. "I think a curse is something that people use to try and explain how bad things happen to people when there is no other way of explaining it."

Exasperated, Monica rolled her eyes, as if she was expecting such a response from him. "John, how can you automatically discount the possibility that there may be some kind of paranormal force at work here?"

Doggett could see the telltale signs of Monica's frustration with him. This was an ongoing scenario whenever they worked a case that could not immediately be explained: Monica would propose an alternative theory, and more often than not, he would chide her for jumping to far-out conclusions. He reminded himself that he needed to stop doing that: to stop putting Monica on the defensive. She was an excellent agent and he needed to show her more often that he respected her.

He made a point to soften the tone of his voice when he spoke. "Monica," he said gently, "all I'm saying is that we should get the facts and do some investigatin' of our own before we start theorizing. Fair enough?"

Monica nodded warily in agreement. _Crisis averted_, Doggett thought to himself. The last thing he wanted right now was to pick a fight with her. He decided to change the subject.

"Anyway, all of this James Dean stuff reminds me of that song: 'Too fast to live, too young to die'," Doggett said. Monica looked at him quizzically.

"Tell me you've heard that song by the Eagles," he pleaded, but Monica merely shrugged.

"My older brother was a big Eagles fan, but that was a bit before my time," she answered. "I've always been more of a U2 fan. You have heard of U2, haven't you, John?" He smirked at the teasing tone in her voice.

"You tryin' to suggest that I'm an old man, Agent Reyes?" Doggett picked up a pillow and tossed it at her.

"You're not old, John," she giggled, ducking to avoid a direct hit. "You're just distinguished."

She was smiling at him again, and Doggett couldn't help but smile back. He wanted to grab her and kiss that smile right off her pretty face. He was momentarily frozen in place as an awkward silence fell over them.

Monica must have sensed it, too. Grabbing her laptop and snapping it shut, she got off the bed and walked to the door. "Well, I'd better get going. We have an early meeting with Sheriff Brunell tomorrow morning."

Suddenly, the thought of Monica leaving him alone and going back to her own room filled Doggett with sadness. "Are you sure you wanna leave? It's not even 11:00. We could look for a James Dean movie on TV or something," he suggested feebly as he studied the carpet.

"I'll take a rain check, okay?" She put her hand on the door. "A girl needs her beauty rest, you know."

"You don't need that, Monica. You're already beautiful." The words had popped out of Doggett's mouth before he even realized what he had said. Monica spun around quickly and self-consciously put a hand to her face in an effort to hide the blush that was rising to her cheeks.

"I think that's one of the sweetest things anyone has ever said to me," she said quietly. Their eyes met for just a moment, and neither one of them seemed to know what to do next. Doggett knew if they stayed in this position much longer, he would be unable to stop himself from taking her into his arms and laying her down on his bed. And as much as he wanted to make love to her, he held back, telling himself he shouldn't be feeling this way about his partner. So, he took the easier, less complicated way out. Yet again.

"Guess we should say goodnight then," he said regretfully.

A wan smile crossed her face as she turned back toward the door. "Yeah, guess so. Goodnight, John."

And then she was gone. Doggett leaned his forehead on the closed door and sighed, wondering what could have happened, if only he had let it. He had no way of knowing that at that very moment, Monica was wondering the very same thing.


	3. Chapter 3: Jealousy Rears Its Ugly Head

**Grant County Sheriff's Office **

**Thursday, 8:20 a.m.**

The drive to the sheriff's office had been quiet, a bit too quiet for Monica. Usually she and John chatted on about all kinds of things when they met up first thing in the morning, and she looked forward to these conversations with him. But this morning it had been different. Monica suspected that it had something to do with the way they had left things the night before.

She just didn't know what to do anymore. She had been in love with John for as long as she could remember, and she had an inkling that he felt the same way about her. But for some strange reason, neither one of them seemed able to talk about it. He had a hard time looking her in the eye lately, and that hurt Monica deeply. Perhaps he had decided that this–whatever _this_ was– wasn't worth pursuing. She only wished that he would have the courtesy to tell her if that really was, in fact, his decision.

John walked over to the information counter and cleared his throat loudly. "Sheriff Brunell?"

A reasonably attractive man of about 45 came walking out of the back office, trying to balance a glazed donut on top of his coffee cup. "You the FBI agents?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm Agent Doggett and this is Agent Reyes. We were hoping that you could . . . "

"Yeah, sure . . . " Brunell smiled at Monica, ignoring John completely. "I'm Sheriff Brunell," he said as she held out his hand to her. "But you can call me Tom."

Monica shook his hand and smiled back at him, aware that John had an annoyed scowl on his face. "Thanks, Tom. We were hoping you could fill us in on the kids who were involved in the cemetery incident the other night."

"I'll be happy to tell you what I know, but I'm afraid you two wasted your time coming all the way out here on this case." Brunell sat down at his desk and bit into his donut. "Can I get you anything, Agent Reyes? There's a fresh pot of coffee back there."

"We had breakfast already. But thanks for offering, _Tom_." Monica put extra emphasis on his name as she watched John out of the corner of her eye. Maybe he was jealous. _Serves him right, _she thought.

John walked over to Brunell's desk and sat down across from him. "Indulge us, Sheriff. Why don't you just tell us what you know and then we'll be out of your hair?"

"Suit yourself, Agent Doggett. Here you go."

He handed a file to John, and Monica walked over to him to read over his shoulder. Ever the gentleman, he offered to give up his chair so she could sit, but Monica shook her head. In all honesty, she liked being able to look at John without feeling the tangible gaze of his penetrating blue eyes. When he looked at her, sometimes she felt as if he could see right into her heart. It left her feeling vulnerable and weak in the knees. _Such a cliché, _she thought_, but clichés are true for a reason_.

And when she wasn't nervous around him, she was driven to distraction by her desire for him. Monica could not deny the intense sexual attraction that seemed to have taken over her life of late. She hungered for him - in every conceivable way. She recalled many long nights when she had rocked herself to sleep with fantasies of John in her head and her fingers between her legs. It was a quick fix, but it was never enough. She wanted _his_ fingers between her legs, _his _hands on her body, _his_ arms wrapped around her, _him_ inside of her.

Monica thought back to the first time she ever saw John Doggett. From a distance he cut such an austere, imposing figure that he seemed almost larger than life to her. But when she drew closer to him, she saw something else in his face: pain. Then, as now, she dreamed of holding him close to her, wanting nothing more than to extinguish his hurt. He was such a good man: he deserved happiness. The haunted look in his eyes was still there today. And although it was usually hidden beneath the mask of stoicism and strength that John usually wore, Monica knew it was there, and it broke her heart.

Brunell's voice brought her back to reality. "The deceased are Ethan Riley and Sam Nelson," he said regretfully. "Both age seventeen."

"Any word on the cause of death?" John asked.

"We're still waiting for the coroner's report," Brunell sighed. "They were good kids, and I'm sure their parents would tell you the same. It's a damn shame they had to die like this, for no good reason. Not that I approve of trespassing and underage drinking, mind you, but they sure didn't deserve this. "

"Of course not. What about the other two kids: Aaron Talbot and Mike Reynolds?" Monica asked. "Have you talked to them again since their friends were killed?"

Brunell shook his head. "Nah. They were pretty shaken up that night. Once I heard the feds were getting involved, I figured I'd wait. I mean, why make them repeat their stories, right?"

John looked up. "Did you have the car checked out? Was there any mechanical problem that might've caused the crash?"

"Nope. I talked to Sam's father–it was his car. He said he just had the car tuned up a week before this happened. I verified that with the mechanic. It's all there, in the file." Brunell took a big slurp of his coffee. John rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the file in his lap.

Monica smiled to herself, knowing how John hated it when someone slurped like that. It was one of his pet peeves. If anyone dared to commit the unpardonable sin of slurping in John Doggett's presence, be prepared for his wrath. She was well aware of his likes and dislikes. She knew him so well, she thought, and yet there were times she felt like she didn't know him at all.

After a few moments, Monica spoke. "We're going to have to take a look at the car. Is it here?"

"No, after we processed it, I had it towed to a lot about a half mile from here. I'll be happy to take you there if you want, Agent Reyes," he offered helpfully.

"Agent Reyes and I will find it, thanks Sheriff. You don't mind if borrow the file, do you?" John frowned and stood up, accidentally brushing up against Monica. She felt that familiar tingle go through her body before she took a step back.

_Damn him for having that effect on me._ _Why can't I make it stop?_

Monica walked to the door with John following close behind. "Thanks, Tom. You've been very helpful," she smiled. "Can we give you a call if we have any questions or anything?" She wasn't really in the mood to play the flirt, but she wanted to see how John would react. He was so cute when he was jealous. Cute and infuriating.

Sheriff Brunell grinned broadly at Monica's words. "Anytime, Agent Reyes. Anytime."

John's eyes narrowed as he ushered Monica out the door. "Come on Agent Reyes, we have work to do."

* * *

John was silent as they drove to the impound lot to inspect the remains of the car. Monica tried in vain to get him to talk, but the most she could get out of him was a grunt or a one-syllable answer. She decided if he wanted to play it like that, then she could too. It wasn't a very mature approach, but she didn't care. She was past the point of being rational when it came to John Doggett.

When they got to the lot, they flashed their badges to the attendant, who then showed them to the car. There was not much more than a shell left of the 1991 Honda Civic. While John snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and began checking the interior of the vehicle, Monica sought out the attendant. When she returned several minutes later, she found John bent over the front seat. She paused for a moment to enjoy the view before she spoke up.

"Find anything?" she asked.

John turned around to face her, pulling off his gloves as he did so. "Nah, nothing unusual. The car was not equipped with air bags, though. That had to have played a part in the cause of death. What about you? Where'd you go?"

"I went to talk to the attendant so I could have a look at the impound sheet. I wanted to see if anything noteworthy was found in the car. Take a look at this." Monica held out her hand to reveal a small plastic bag which contained what looked like a broken piece of a mirror.

He studied it. "Rearview mirror, maybe?" He turned back to look at the wreckage behind him. "Didn't come from this car, though. That one's still intact."

"I don't know where it came from," Monica said. "It wasn't mentioned in the police report, was it?"

"Nope." John turned the object over in his hands. "Why don't you ask your friend Tom about it?" he said sarcastically.

Monica chose to ignore it. "I think it would be much more productive if we ask Aaron Talbot and Mike Reynolds about it." She spun around and walked back to the rental car.

_It's going to be a long day_, she sighed.

* * *

After Doggett and Reyes left the car lot, they drove to the accident scene. They made the usual observations: there were no skid marks, which would have indicated that Sam Nelson tried to stop suddenly. There was no sign of an animal carcass, or anything else in the road that he might have tried to avoid by swerving suddenly. It was as if the car was purposely driven straight into the tree. Monica insisted that the area gave her an uneasy feeling, but Doggett had merely frowned and reminded her that the area was, in fact, right next to a cemetery. It was no wonder she was getting creepy vibes.

They spent a good part of the afternoon speaking with the two survivors of the incident. Both young men appeared visibly shaken by what had occurred. They repeated their version of the events, starting with their decision to sneak into the cemetery, and continued by describing what happened next.

"We were just horsing around, man," Aaron said. "We didn't mean no harm."

Monica leaned forward and looked the two young men in their eyes. "You said you heard a noise and then a scream. What kind of a noise did you hear?"

Aaron and Mike looked at each other nervously. "You're gonna think we're nuts," Mike stammered.

"Give us a try." John said.

"It sounded like a car crash, okay?" Mike said defensively. "And don't say we imagined it because all four of us heard it at the same time."

Aaron continued. "Yeah, we were already spooked enough, but then we heard this really loud scream. So we took off running. We ran all the way back to the car . . . " He stopped and looked down, his lower lip trembling.

"It's okay, guys," Monica said soothingly. "Tell us what happened next."

"Ethan and Sam jumped into the front seat. Mike and I were just about to get in the back seat when we saw something. I don't know if it was a ghost or what, man."

John leaned back in his chair. "Can you describe exactly your saw, Aaron?"

"Not sure exactly. It all happened so fast. All I remember was a blurry figure of a man. But it didn't look real, you know?" Mike nodded in agreement.

"You told Sheriff Brunell you saw a flash of red. What did you mean by that?"

Mike swallowed hard. "It looked like it--whatever we saw--was wearing a red coat or a jacket or something."

"The ghost was wearing a red jacket?" Monica asked.

"Hey, you said it was a ghost, lady. Not me."

Aaron continued. "Then we heard this voice. It seemed like it was coming from that ghost or whatever it was. It said, 'don't get in the car'. So we decided to get the hell out of there. We tried to convince Ethan and Sam to come with us, but . . . " He pounded his fist onto the coffee table, unable to finish the sentence.

John pulled the plastic bag containing the mirror piece out of his coat pocket. "You fellas recognize this?" He looked at both young men, who nodded hesitantly. "Whose is it?"

"It's mine," Mike replied sheepishly. "Well, it's not actually mine, but I had it that night. My grandpa is the curator of the James Dean Museum . . . I sort of borrowed it from him."

The agents waited for him to continue. "It's supposed to be a piece of rearview mirror from his Porsche. You know, the one he got killed in. I heard stories–you know–about the car being cursed."

Monica leaned over and whispered in John's ear. "Maybe there is something to all those stories after all."

* * *

**James Dean Museum **

**Thursday, 5:56 p.m.**

Doggett and Reyes surveyed the impressive looking building filled with James Dean artifacts and memorabilia. One section was devoted to his boyhood, which was spent in Fairmount, and another dealt exclusively with his movie career. An entire area was stocked with T-shirts, coffee mugs and other James Dean related merchandise for sale.

"Looks like James Dean is quite a little cottage industry here in Fairmount," John mused.

"You know, I had always heard about the mystique and the legend and all that," Monica said. "Kind of like Marilyn Monroe. It's hard to believe he only made four or five movies."

"Three, actually. 'East of Eden,' 'Rebel Without a Cause' and 'Giant.'" An elderly man approached her and stuck out his hand. "Hi, I'm Ed Willis. I'm the curator here."

"I'm Agent Reyes and this is Agent Doggett. We're with the FBI." Monica returned his handshake. "So he only made three movies, huh?"

"Yes, indeed. Three movies and look at the legendary status he has achieved." Mr. Willis made a grand sweeping gesture with his hand, as if he were showcasing a fabulous prize package on a t.v. game show. "He represented the rebellious youth movement in the Fifties. Though I suppose his untimely death is what really propelled him into superstar status. But enough of my chattering. I'm sure you didn't come out here to hear my tour guide speech. How can I help you folks?"

John showed him the mirror piece. "Do you recognize this, Mr. Willis?"

His eyes lit up immediately. "I certainly do. Where did you get this?"

"Two teenagers were killed in a car crash earlier this week. This was found in the wreckage. Your grandson Mike apparently took it from you without your knowledge."

"Dammit, I told him never to touch this!" Willis said angrily.

"Mr. Willis," Monica said, "where did you get this from, if I may ask?"

Willis turned his back and walked a few steps away from the agents. "A cousin of mine acquired it a long time ago."

John raised his eyebrows. "Acquired it?"

"Yes," Willis continued, "my cousin Jack took it from the remains of James Dean's car when it was part of a safety display in California back in the late 50s. It was a very big deal back then to have a piece of _the car_, no matter how small. Jack was one of those souvenir hunters that you've no doubt read about. I'm not proud of it, but I can't exactly turn back the hands of time, either."

"Nobody's blaming you for that, sir," John said. "But why did your cousin decide to give it to you?"

Willis looked him squarely in the eyes. "One time he was showing it off to some of his friends. He had it in his hand when his legs suddenly gave out from under him. Poor bastard landed right on the mirror and damn near punctured a lung," he chuckled. "After that, Jack was convinced that all of the stories about the curse were true. He couldn't get rid of it fast enough."

"Have you had any strange occurrences since you've been in possession of it?" Monica asked.

"Nope, not a one," Willis answered thoughtfully. "But maybe it's because I don't treat it like it's part of a circus sideshow. I can't say if there is anything to all of those tales about a curse, but I sure am not one to tempt fate, either."

John handed the item to Monica. "We're going to have to hang onto this for a while, sir. We'll take it to the Sheriff's office for safekeeping."

I understand," he said cooperatively. "If you want to know the truth, maybe it's all for the best. I just hate to think that something like that might have been partly responsible for those kids' dying. So tragic . . . "

They both nodded in agreement but were unsure how to respond. John finally broke the uncomfortable silence. "Mr. Willis, Aaron and Mike told us that they saw a figure standing in front of the car wearing either a red coat or jacket. That mean anything to you?"

Willis' eyes widened. He did not answer with words but pointed up to the movie poster that hung on the opposite wall. It was an oversized theater poster for "Rebel Without a Cause," the 1955 film that made James Dean a star. The poster was dominated by a photo of a squinting Dean, leaning against a wall, the ever present cigarette in his hand. He was wearing a red jacket with the collar turned up.

Monica's hand flew to her mouth in surprise. "You don't think . . . "

John was just about to respond when the familiar ring of a cell phone interrupted him. Instinctively, he patted his breast pocket and began to reach for it when he realized it was Monica's. He watched as she pulled her phone from her jacket pocket and held it to her ear.

"Monica Reyes. Oh, yes. Hello, Tom." She glanced purposefully at John, making sure he was paying attention. He was. She put her hand over the receiver and addressed the museum's curator. "Excuse me, Mr. Willis, it's Sheriff Brunell. I have to take this."

Willis nodded and walked away, absently brushing some invisible dust from a few of the exhibits as he did so. John, on the other hand, stayed right where he was, leaning his ear into Monica's phone, trying to hear what her new admirer was calling her about. Monica glared at him and walked away.

"You have? Oh, really? So, you think this could be of help to our investigation? Well, I think we're about finished up here. I'll see you back at the station and we can talk about it then. What's that, Tom? Dinner? Oh, I don't know about that . . . "

John's brow furrowed angrily. He spun around and headed toward the door, calling out a terse goodbye to Ed Willis on his way out. Monica immediately went after him, but not before abruptly ending the call to Sheriff Brunell.

"John, wait up! Wait up!" Monica called out in an attempt to get him to slow down. But the speed of John's steps seemed to increase the closer he got to the car. By the time Monica was able to catch up to him, she was nearly out of breath.

"What the hell was that about?" she demanded as she waited for him to unlock the car door. "I wasn't aware that we were finished talking to Mr. Willis."

John got in the car and started it up. "Oh, we're done all right," he muttered through clenched teeth. "So what did lover boy want, anyway? Besides the obvious, of course."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked. Her voice, as well as her anger level, was rising by the second.

John pulled the car back out onto the main road and headed north. "You know what I'm talking about," he said. "Brunell wants you."

"He _wants_ me?" Monica would have laughed if she wasn't so incensed at his boorish behavior. "Dare I ask how you came to that conclusion?" John opened his mouth to answer but she help up her hand to silence him. "On second thought," she huffed, "I don't think I want to know."

The humming of the car's engine was the only sound that could be heard for a few moments. Finally, Monica turned to look at John, studying his chiseled profile with great interest.

"Besides, John, since when do you care if Tom has more than a professional interest in me? What's it to you? You and I are _partners_. And partners aren't supposed to have feelings for each other, are they? You've certainly made that clear enough."

Monica was surprised at the almost detached quality of her voice. Her outburst hung in the air, unanswered, for what seemed like an eternity. She kept her eyes on John's face, all but daring him to come back at her with a sarcastic reply. When he didn't, she sighed, defeated. She turned to look out the window and said nothing more until the reached the Sheriff's Department.

She couldn't get out of the car fast enough. "Are you coming or what?" she mumbled.

John stared dumbly at the steering wheel, willing himself not to look in Monica's direction. "Uh . . . no. I, uh, think I am going to head over to the M.E.'s office and see if I can get a heads up on the autopsy report. I'll just see you back at the motel."

"And how am I supposed to get back to the motel, Agent Doggett?" she asked accusingly, hands on hips. "You have the car."

John bit his lip but said it anyway. "I'm sure _Tom_ will be more than happy to give you a ride, _Agent Reyes_." Monica was so shocked that she let him drive off before she could think of anything to say. It was only after the car disappeared from her sight that she found her voice again.

"You bastard," she seethed, wiping away angry tears. She took a few moments to collect herself before she walked in the door to the Sheriff's Department.


	4. Chapter 4: Reconciliation, Consummation

**Fairmount Motor Lodge **

**8:45 p.m.**

Monica slammed the door to her motel room and peeled off her clothes. She tied her hair into a ponytail as she stormed into the bathroom.

_Who the hell did he think he was?_ She was fuming as she stepped into the shower. The warm water cascaded down her body as she tried to reel in her anger. How dare he just run off and leave her like that? They were supposed to be a team, working together: all for one and one for all and all that crap. That's all it was: crap. John apparently didn't have the same respect for their working relationship that she did.

As Monica turned the faucet off and wrapped a towel around herself, she thought back to last night. He had looked at her so sweetly just before she left his room. He had called her beautiful. And although she was completely incensed with him right now, Monica could not deny how much those words had meant to her. She chided herself for allowing John to have this effect on her, time and time again.

"I'm a grown woman for Pete's sake," she said out loud to her empty room. She threw on a blue camisole and matching panties. "I shouldn't be moping like a schoolgirl over any guy, especially one who acts like an immature little asshole."

As if on cue, there was a knock at the adjoining door. It couldn't be anybody but John. He was probably there to tell her what he learned at the coroner's office. She wasn't particularly in the mood to see him at the moment, but she felt obligated to put her personal feelings aside for the sake of work. Work came first, after all.

_Work has to come first, because I have nothing else_.

Monica pulled a cotton robe around her body and opened the door. John stood there, eyes cast downward, hands thrust deeply into his pockets. The sight of him standing barefoot in his gray tee shirt and jeans made her heart skip a beat. She clenched her hand into a fist behind her back and forced herself to speak slowly.

"What is it, John?" she asked coolly.

He cleared his throat hesitantly. "I'm glad you're here. I thought maybe you wouldn't be."

"Oh? You thought maybe I would be out on the town with the good sheriff?" she snorted. "Well, not that it's any concern of yours, but no, I didn't have dinner with him. But it wasn't for a lack of trying on his part."

He still wasn't looking at her. "I wanted to talk to you, Monica. Can I come in?"

Monica did not reply but moved away from the door, allowing him to enter. "So what did the coroner say?" she sighed.

John walked past her and into the room. "The report wasn't ready yet. He promised to give me a call first thing in the morning."

"So what have you been doing all this time then? Thinking up new ways to humiliate me? " Monica asked testily.

He did not address her second question right away, instead choosing to answer the first. "I went back to the accident scene to see if there was something we missed. After that, I basically drove around for an hour like the idiot that I am." If Monica wasn't so furious with him, she would have smiled at his self-deprecating words. It was so typical of him to blurt out something like that. "Anyway, I didn't come here to talk about the case," he finished quietly.

"Well, then what did you come here for, John? I'm really not in the mood to play games right now."

"It's not a game, Monica." He took a step toward her. "I came here to apologize for acting like such a . . . "

"Horse's ass? Irrational jerk off? Immature bastard?" Monica suggested.

John chuckled nervously. "All of the above. I had no right to drive off like that. I'm so sorry, Monica. You didn't deserve that."

"You're right, John. I didn't." Monica stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at her. "Whatever personal issues we may have between us, we never just leave each other like that. I can't tell you how much that hurt me." She turned her back on him in an attempt to hide the raw emotion that she knew was displayed openly on her face. "I expected more from you, John."

He nodded slowly then hung his head. "I'm sorry I hurt you, Monica. That's the last thing I wanna do. I wasn't thinking clearly. Seems like I haven't been able to think clearly for some time now," he said wistfully.

Monica whirled back around and folded her arms across her chest. "And why is that?"

"It's just that . . . oh, hell, I don't know how to do this . . . " He shook his head in frustration.

Monica felt her defenses melt away at the image of an awkward-looking John Doggett stumbling over his words. "It's okay, John, what is it?"

John took another step toward her. Without a word, he hesitantly reached up and touched her cheek. Monica was visibly moved by this sweet display of affection. Her eyes remained fixed on John's face as he reached for the elastic band that tied up her hair. In one fluid movement, he released her ponytail, then combed his strong fingers through her chestnut hair, gently smoothing it. Their eyes locked, and at that moment the tension that had been burning a hole in her gut evaporated completely.

"John." She reached for his hand and kissed the center of his palm. "You're looking at me – really looking at me," she whispered, marveling at this amazing turn of events. "Seems like forever since you've done that."

"And you're touching me, Monica." His voice was filled with awe. "God knows how much that means to me. I thought that . . . "

She put a finger to his lips. "I know, John. Me too."

Monica was filled with such love for this man that she thought she might die of it. Before she could change her mind, she leaned in to close the gap between them. John pulled her to him the rest of the way and, without fanfare, quietly covered her lips with his. Their first kiss was gentle and hesitant, as though both were waiting for the other to pull away. But neither one did. There was a second kiss, then a third, and a fourth. Each kiss became a little more urgent and went a little deeper. Monica was amazed at the depth of feeling in his kisses. She returned his kisses with equal intensity as their tongues danced together. He ground his hips against hers, making his desire for her evident.

"I love you, Monica. I've always loved you," he gasped as they broke for air. "I just didn't have the balls to do anything about it." She hugged him tightly to her as a million different sensations passed through her body.

"God, John, I can't remember a time when I didn't love you," she breathed into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry I was such a jerk," John said, "but when I saw the way Brunell was leering at you, I don't know what came over me. I wanted to kick the shit outta him. I got so damn jealous, even though I know I didn't have a right to be. The thought of another man looking at you like that, let alone touching you. It drives me crazy." He ran his hands up and down the length of her arms as he spoke. "Nothing makes sense to me anymore without you, Monica. I know I haven't shown it, but I intend to make up for that. I just hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

John pulled away just far enough to gauge Monica's reaction. "I forgive you, John." She couldn't help smiling at him as she nodded her acquiescence. "But if you ever do anything like that again, I'll kick your ass from here to next Tuesday."

John laughed as he buried his nose in her hair. "Don't worry, Mon. It'll never happen again. I promise."

The thought of a man displaying his jealousy so openly like that would have made her uncomfortable if this had been just _any _guy. But John's possessiveness suited him perfectly. She knew he didn't look at her as a piece of property. Rather, John Doggett was a man who respected and cherished women; he was a man who would give his life to protect those he cared about. And she felt like very lucky indeed to be loved by such a noble and honorable man.

Neither of them spoke for a few moments, both content to absorb the significance of what had just transpired between them. He moved in to kiss her again, and she felt her body tingling all over. She had wanted him for so long, and now finally destiny was taking its course.

"John . . . " she began.

He looked at her expectantly. "Yeah, Mon?"

"Stay with me tonight." She took his hands and led him over to the bed.

John's eyes bore into hers. "You sure about this?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes, I'm sure," she answered. I know that it's all happening pretty fast, but . . . " Before she could complete her thought John captured her lips for another kiss, this one hungrier than the ones that came before it. They toppled onto the bed, their lips still connected as if glued together by some magical force.

"I want you so much . . . " he rasped as their clothes started flying.

"And you will have me," Monica whispered. "But then, you've always had me. You just didn't realize it."

John stopped undressing her momentarily as he took in what she had just said. He kissed her forehead gratefully. "I love you, Monica," he croaked. She could feel the emotion in his voice, all of the emotion that he had kept bottled up for so long, and it touched her.

Monica took his hand and placed it over her heart. "And I love you, John Doggett. Let me show you how much."

They removed their remaining articles of clothing, anxious to be rid of any obstacles that delayed their physical union. John's body was warm and responded eagerly to her tactile attention. Monica couldn't stop touching him. She thought back to all of those lonely nights that she lay in bed alone, wondering what it would feel like to run her hands along John's body, pondering what treasures were hidden beneath John's dapper dress suits. Nothing that she imagined could have prepared her, though. John was every inch a man, and then some. He was more than she could have ever wanted. And now, as she felt John's mouth exploring her trembling flesh it occurred to her that she didn't have to dream about him anymore, because he was really there in her bed with her. The reality was so much more beautiful than the fantasy.

They must have spent half the evening discovering each other, using lips, tongues and fingers to explore the most intimate parts of their bodies. Finally, John's eyes searched Monica's face, silently questioning. She met his gaze and looked deeply into his crystalline eyes, eyes that were gleaming with love and desire.

"Monica, I need to be inside you," he pleaded. She was at once moved and aroused at the urgency in his voice.

"Please," was the only word she could utter as she felt John drape his body over hers. He consumed her mouth in a kiss as he slowly entered her. At that instant they were joined together: one body, one spirit, one soul. And they never looked back.

* * *

"You okay, John?" 

Doggett opened his eyes and looked at the woman whom he'd loved for so long. She lay there, smiling serenely, her statuesque body wrapped in the white motel bed sheet. To Doggett, Monica looked like a mythical goddess, one he remembered reading about back in his high school days. He watched, mesmerized, as she ran her hand lightly yet possessively along the width of his shoulders, stopping momentarily to stroke his cheek with her thumb. He belonged to her now, she told him silently. Someday he would tell her that he always had.

"I'm doin' great." Doggett was grinning like a lovesick fool but he didn't give a damn. He felt like running out onto the motel balcony and screaming to everyone within earshot that he had just made love to the most incredible woman in the world. He could still taste her on his tongue. In a deliberate but leisurely move, he slipped his hand under the sheet and moved it up her body. He closed his fingers around her breast, eliciting a contented sigh from Monica. "How 'bout you?"

Monica cooed as Doggett continued his mastery of her upper body, gently manipulating one breast and then moving on to give the other one similar treatment. "Great doesn't even begin to describe it," she murmured. "You are an amazing man, John." She wiggled her eyebrows mischievously. "In more ways than one, I might add."

Doggett blushed at her words. _When was the last time he had done that_? Suddenly it hit him that there were a lot of things he would be doing again, now that Monica was really in his life. For the first time in a long time, the idea of living life again actually sounded appealing to him, and he owed it all to Monica. His heart was filled gratitude for the gift of hope that she had so lovingly given him.

"What are you thinking, baby?" Monica asked.

Doggett leaned down and touched his lips to hers, ending their kiss with a noisy smack. He smiled against her mouth. "I'm thinkin' that I like it when you call me baby."

"You do, huh?" she asked impishly. "Well, if you play your cards right, Agent Doggett, you'll hear me screaming 'baby' and a few other things, too."

A moment later, Doggett found himself lying flat on his back, much to his delight. Monica was giggling as she climbed atop him and straddled his chest. Doggett raked his eyes over her nakedness, and he felt himself getting aroused again. Her lips were parted seductively, and her hair was mussed. It was almost too much. He had to suppress the strong urge to flip her onto her stomach and take her from behind. There would be time enough for that later, he decided. Right now he was content to enjoy the sight and feel of her body on his.

"So tell me something, Monica," he began.

"Anything." Monica's hands came to rest on each side of his head, her fingers tenderly stroking the short hair that grew at his temples.

"How did you get Brunell to leave you alone?"

She hesitated for a moment. "I told him that I was flattered by his attention, but that I was in love with someone else," she finally answered.

"Who's the lucky guy? Anyone I know?" he asked, the slightest hint of playfulness in his voice.

"You might . . . " Monica's happy expression suddenly vanished as their eyes met again. She opened her mouth as if she was going to say something, but no words came out. Doggett watched as a single tear trickled down her cheek. She made a shy attempt to dry her face, but he caught her hand before she was able to.

"Don't cry, Mon." He ran his fingertip tenderly down her face, tracing the path of the tear that had fallen. "It kills me to see you cry."

"It's okay, John," she said. Her voice was thick with feeling. "It's a good kind of crying. It's just that . . . " Monica hesitated, searching for just the right words to express how she felt. Doggett ran his fingers though her silken hair and patiently waited for her to continue. "...it's been such a long road for us to get here, you know?"

Doggett nodded. "I know it has. But we're finally here, Monica. That's all that matters now."

Her lower lip trembled. "This means so much to me. You're my best friend in the whole world, John."

"And you're mine. But that's not gonna change." Doggett took her hand in his and stroked it softly. Monica smiled beatifically at his words. "I love you, Monica. You've always been there for me, puttin' my needs ahead of your own," he continued. "You've never once let me down. Thank you for not giving up on me," he said quietly, now blinking back a few tears himself.

Monica intertwined her fingers with his. "I didn't see it as an option, John. I couldn't _not _love you, even if I tried."

Doggett shook his head in amazement. "You're too good for me. You know that?"

Monica threw her arms around Doggett and hugged him fiercely. "You're the finest man I know, John Jay Doggett," she whispered in his ear. "And I love you with everything that I am."

Doggett kissed her long and hard, wanting only to convey the love and desire that were in his heart. Monica returned his kisses eagerly, seeking out his lips like a starving man reaching for a scrap of food. He felt his pulse quicken as Monica shifted slightly, planting soft wet kisses along his collarbone. He watched her through half-lidded eyes as she moved further down his body. She ran her tongue down his chest at a tantalizingly slow pace. When her lips reached his navel, he threw his head back, unable to look at what she was doing for fear that he would lose control. That would happen soon enough anyway. He closed his eyes and whimpered as her head dipped below his waist and her warm mouth encompassed his erection. 'Monica' was the only word that was in his head and on his lips, and it rolled round and round in his brain as he chanted it like a mantra. He lost all sense of space and time after that.


	5. Chapter 5: The Last Word

**Fairmount Motor Lodge**

**Friday, 9:05 a.m. **

Monica slowly opened her eyes to the light steaming into the room. She was greeted by the delicious feeling of John's warm body spooned up against her. His arms were wound protectively around her waist, and one of his muscular legs was nudged in between hers. Her ears were serenaded by his deep, even breath sounds.

She yawned and sunk down a little deeper into the pillow, thinking back on the beautiful night that she and her partner had shared. They hadn't gotten much sleep, having spent the majority of the night blissfully discovering each other in ways that they had both previously only dreamed about. By 6:00 a.m., they had gone five times. Finally, sated and exhausted, they fell into a restful sleep.

Monica was still lost in her thoughts when John began to stir behind her. He hummed as he kissed the back of her neck, and Monica shivered excitedly at the contact. "Mmm, you taste good," he growled happily, his voice still rough from sleep. A giggle escaped her lips as one of his hands snaked down past her belly and insinuated itself between her legs. He pressed himself against the small of her back, leaving no doubt about what he wanted. "Now kindly turn around so I can give you a proper good morning kiss," he said.

She twisted around to face him, and immediately his mouth enveloped hers. "Good morning," she murmured between slow, unhurried kisses.

"It _will_ be a good morning pretty soon," John said with a naughty grin, as he guided her hand down to his growing erection.

Monica feigned surprise. "Again? Wow, John. I'm impressed."

"Yeah, well, what can I tell ya, Mon? I've been saving myself for you." He caught her lower lip between his teeth and gently tugged on it. "All for you," he repeated, only slower this time.

"Me too," she purred happily. "Come to think of it, we do have to make up for lost time, I suppose."

"That's my girl," John said proudly, as he rolled on top of her. Monica moaned in approval as his tongue flitted out and caught her on the ear. Things were just starting to heat up when the phone rang.

"Damn phone," he grumbled. "It's my cell. Shoulda left it in my room last night."

They looked at each other longingly as the phone continued to ring. "Guess you'd better get that, huh?" Monica sighed. John nodded and reluctantly slipped out of bed, muttering a string of obscenities in the process. He began searching for his pants, which had been stripped off in a fit of passion the previous night. He couldn't keep the smile from coming across his lips when he thought back to the memory of it. Forcing himself to focus, he managed to locate his pants and consequently the offending cell phone.

The coroner, Dr. Richter, was calling to inform him that the autopsy report was complete. Doggett told him that he and his partner would be there shortly to pick up a copy. He looked over at Monica as he ended the call. She was already out of bed and on her way into the bathroom. "We're gonna continue this later," he promised her.

She turned around and blew him a kiss. "You can count on it."

* * *

**International House of Pancakes **

**10:24 a.m.**

"Well, it doesn't look like this is telling us much, as we expected," John said, as he flipped through the report. "Neither one of these kids had enough alcohol in them to be even remotely impaired. Sam Nelson died of massive internal injuries." The waitress had just brought their orders, cheerfully setting down a plate of French toast and bacon in front of John and a Western omelet for Monica.

Monica bit into a slice of wheat toast. "That would make sense, because he was the driver. So the fatal injury probably occurred when his chest was crushed against the steering wheel, right?"

John eyed her with mock suspicion. "Did you get an advance copy of this report, Agent Reyes?" he asked in a lighthearted manner. Monica's face broke out into a Cheshire cat-like grin. A part of her felt guilty for feeling so giddy and in love at the precise time that two families were mourning the loss of their teenage sons, but she couldn't help how she felt. Monica was enjoying seeing this more relaxed, happier side of John, and she made a silent wish that it would continue. Nevertheless, she tried to turn her attention back to the matter at hand.

"What about the other boy: Ethan?"

John's expression became noticeably somber. "He was thrown from the car. Snapped his neck and died instantly."

"That's so horrible." Monica thought for a moment. "You know, that's how James Dean died, too. Broke his neck in the accident." She caught John trying to hide a smirk as he dug into his breakfast. "I know what you're going to say, John. Don't start with me," she warned.

John held up his hands in a motion of surrender. "What? I didn't say anything!" His words were muffled due to the half-chewed French toast in his mouth.

"You didn't have to. I usually know what you're going to say before you say it," Monica said. "And you shouldn't talk with your mouth full," she chided sweetly.

"Geez, Mon. Pretty bossy this morning, aren't you?" He paused. "I kinda like it when you tell me what to do."

Monica looked into his eyes and saw nothing but pure affection in them. She decided to play along. "You sure seemed to like it last night," she flirted.

"Boy, did I. Promise me there's more where that came from." John winked at her, and Monica felt a wonderful tingling sensation all through her body. It was a damn good thing she was sitting down, she thought, because her legs would have given out had she been standing. She grabbed onto her coffee cup to steady her suddenly shaky hands.

"John . . . " Monica looked around the restaurant nervously. "We'd better cut this out or we're never going to finish our work on this case."

He pushed his empty plate away and leaned back into the booth. "All right, all right," he said with a frustrated sigh, "but I just don't know what else we can do, Mon. We haven't gotten any damn answers so far."

Monica slid her hand across the table and touched him on the arm, and it seemed to relax him a bit. "I think we should have that mirror looked at by someone who is more familiar with curses and the like. Maybe there is something we can learn from it," she said evenly.

"Who could we take it to? A 'curse-ologist'? He asked jokingly.

"Well, I don't know about that . . . " Monica said, amused at his attempt at humor. "Any other ideas?"

John thought for a moment. "How about the Lone Gunmen? Maybe they'll have some ideas. Come on, Mon, let's finish up here. We need to get that mirror back."

* * *

They arrived back at the Sheriff's Department not long after breakfast. When they reached the front door to the station, Monica turned to John and nudged him gently. "Now, John, promise me you'll be nice to Sheriff Brunell," she pleaded.

"Of course I'll be nice," he snorted, a little indignant at Monica for suggesting that he might do otherwise. He held the door open for her, and as she passed him, their shoulders touched. They both smiled, no longer apprehensive about any accidental physical contact while they were working. "Besides," Doggett whispered once they were inside the station, "I got the girl. If anything, _he _should be jealous of _me_." They stood side by side, and Doggett's hand came to rest on the small of her back.

Monica felt the color rise to her face. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and noted that he looked as happy as she felt. "Yes, you certainly did get the girl," she whispered back.

At that moment, Sheriff Brunell came ambling out of the break room, coffee cup in hand. He was eyeing the box of Dunkin' Donuts on his desk when he saw he was not alone. He started slightly when he saw Monica standing so close to John, and then his eyes flickered with realization. "Agents. How are you this morning?" His tone seemed almost formal, a far cry from the flirtatious nature of his behavior the day before.

Monica stepped forward. "Good morning, Tom. You remember that piece of evidence that I left here yesterday? We need it back so we can do some further analysis on it."

"You mean the rearview mirror from James Dean's death car?" Brunell chuckled. "Sure thing. Follow me."

They followed him back into a small room that was not much bigger than the size of a broom closet. It was a tight squeeze for three people, but Doggett was happy to have an excuse to be pressed up close to Monica in a confined space. He furtively leaned toward her, catching a whiff of her shampoo. It was the shampoo that he himself had massaged into her hair this morning as they showered together. As if she was reading his thoughts, Monica turned to him and gave him a knowing smile. He knew that she was thinking about it, too.

Doggett turned his attention back to the Sheriff, watching as he took a key from his pocket and unlocked the evidence vault. Brunell gasped in surprise as he peered in to check the vault's contents. "What the . . . ?" he exclaimed.

"What? What is it?" Monica stepped forward to get a closer look. Doggett watched in shock as Brunell pulled out a man's 1950s style red windbreaker jacket from the vault, holding it up as if it were a piece of contaminated evidence. Monica grabbed it from him and held it up for Doggett's inspection. "Where's the mirror?" she asked, as Doggett rifled through the jacket pockets. "You put it in this vault yesterday!"

"Damn right I did!" Brunell replied defensively. He gestured toward Monica. "You saw me do it. And this jacket sure as hell wasn't in there. I've never even seen this before!"

Doggett put his hands on his hips and frowned. "I think someone is having a little fun with you, Sheriff. Someone who knows what Aaron Talbot and Mike Reynolds said they saw the night of the accident."

"That's a nice theory, Agent Doggett, but there's one problem: I'm the only one who has a key to this vault. And I can assure you that I didn't do this."

Doggett exchanged glances with Monica. Now it was his turn to read her mind. "Excuse us," he said to Brunell, as he took her by the arm and gingerly guided her out into the hallway where they could speak privately. She clearly wanted to say something to him, but she waited for him to speak first.

"Monica, I know what you're thinkin'. You think this was the work of a ghost."

"What other explanation makes sense, John?" she asked him earnestly. "We have a cursed mirror piece that mysteriously disappears from a locked evidence vault and is replaced with a red jacket. And, it just so happens that our surviving witnesses say they saw what looked to be the blurry figure of a man wearing a red jacket standing in front of their car, warning them not to get in. Maybe this was the ghost of James Dean talking to us, telling us that the curse has to be broken before anyone else dies." Her eyes bored into his, challenging him. "Tell me how else it can be explained."

Doggett sighed. "Well, what about our friend the sheriff?" he whispered, glancing around to make sure their conversation was not being overheard. "Maybe this is some kind of trick: you know, payback for you not going out to dinner with him last night."

Monica shook her head thoughtfully. "I don't think so. Did you see the look on his face when he opened up the vault? He was just as shocked as we were. And I don't think he's that good of an actor to fake something like that."

There was a brief silence between them as Doggett wracked his brain for another way to explain what had taken place. Trouble was, he couldn't think of one.

"Okay, okay, I give up," he said, resigned to the idea of another unexplainable X-File. Doggett knew that after two years working in the unit founded by "Spooky Mulder," he should be used to cases in which there were no clear findings, no real answers. But he wasn't. It never stopped bothering him.

Sensing his frustration, Monica took his hand and uttered reassurances. "It's not our fault, John. We didn't create the facts. We just have to report them as we find them and come to whatever conclusion we see fit." Her soothing words were music to his ears, and Doggett was amazed once again at the positive effect this woman was having on his attitude.

It took all of his resolve to keep from taking her in his arms right there and planting a big wet one on her. "You're right, Monica. There's only so much we can do, I suppose." This time, there was no frustration in his voice, only acceptance. "Now let's say goodbye to Donut Boy so we can get out of here."

* * *

Doggett's mood had brightened considerably after they finished their business at the Sheriff's Department. "No offense to the good people of Fairmount, but I'm ready to go home," he said with relief, as they walked toward their rental car.

"Home? You mean home as in D.C.?" Monica asked.

Doggett put an arm around her and gently squeezed her shoulders. "Nope. I mean home, as in _my_ home. I was hoping I could talk you into spending the weekend with me."

Monica pretended to consider his offer carefully. "Hmm, sounds enticing. What did you have in mind?"

"You'll have to wait and see," he said mysteriously. "But let's just say part of it involves me bringing you breakfast in bed tomorrow morning. Betcha didn't know that I make kick-ass blueberry pancakes. They'll knock your socks off."

"I was kind of hoping you'll knock more than my socks off, Agent Doggett," she grinned.

Doggett opened the passenger door for Monica and kissed her lightly on the lips. "Oh, I will, Agent Reyes. I will. You can count on it."

End

* * *

Author's Notes: I have always been fascinated by James Dean. When I was a kid, I read an article about his Porsche and how it was supposedly cursed, and it stuck with me. The mysterious deaths and injuries that Monica cited to John actually did occur, as did the way the car vanished. Whether or not there really is a curse is open to interpretation. 


End file.
